


Could've Been Worse

by AeeDee



Series: The Miracle [2]
Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started out as a fill at the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/tronkinkmeme/">Tron kink meme</a>, and it kind of evolved into a complete fic from there.  The initial prompt requested Alan feeling guilty over lusting for Sam, and that plot bunny multiplied.</p><p>It helps to have seen <i>Legacy</i> first, but if you haven't, it doesn't rely too heavily on anything that happens in the Grid (apart from Quorra's appearance, which is relatively minor).  When writing this, I transcripted and reinterpreted a scene from the film and went from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could've Been Worse

“Why are you here, Alan?” It hurts, that tone of voice. That boy couldn’t sound more disinterested. Like he was a stray that wandered in, needing a purpose to justify himself. He didn’t want one, but it was necessary. ‘I felt like dropping by,’ wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t ever be good enough to earn this kid’s time. He’d already bored him with an “How you been,” question he didn’t fairly answer, so it was a bad idea to waste anymore of his time.

So he got straight to business, the way he always did. “I was paged last night.”

“Oh man, still rockin’ the pager, Alan! Good for you,” that laughter was quite amused, but it was cruel. He laughed because he found it ridiculous. Because that pager was just another old, outdated relic of useless technology, used by an old, out-of-touch man. Better and more useful things had come and gone, and he was still stuck in his ways. He knew that. But he hated to be reminded of it; especially by this kid. Because this kid, Sam Flynn was the new and better model. He was the new generation, and he was hot, cool and in-touch with everything he needed to know and be. He was a rebel because he wanted it, not because he had no other choice. He had every choice in the world. No club or organization in the world would kick him out. If he made an honest effort to impress, nobody would close a door on Sam Flynn.

“Yeah, your… dad once told me I had to sleep with it,” because he might as well be honest. “I still do.” And that kid’s smile fades, like he’s no longer amused by the joke. The small joy that laughing at Alan brought him, has now passed. His attention will soon be elsewhere, as well.

So Alan makes the most of his moment in the spotlight, while he can, “The page came from your dad’s office at the arcade.”

As he expects, Sam’s face changes again. He’s not amused anymore. He’s barely even interested. The smile fades without leaving any trace. And when he speaks, he’s as irritated as he could get, a quiet and murmured, “So?” He’s threatening him with that murmur. Justify yourself or leave; that’s what it says. Justify. Explain your purpose in mentioning that irrelevant, hurtful subject. There was no subject Sam hated to discuss more than his father. And there was no subject Alan hated to bring up more, either.

But he needs a purpose. And by god he was going to seize every possible reason he had to get an audience with Sam. There were too few; and this one was too important. He didn’t know how, but it was. It just was.

“So?” he parrots it back at him, seizing his only chance to show off his insider info, “That number’s been disconnected for twenty years.”

Sam is perfectly silent. Silent is good. Silent meant he was listening. So he had no choice; he had to go on, regardless of the consequences or the way it’d make him feel.

“Sam, two nights before he disappeared he came to my house,” he studies the movements. He’s trying to read body language but Sam is a closed book. Face neutral, body posture stiff and immobile. “’I’ve cracked it!,’ he kept saying. He was talking about genetic algorithms,” there it is. Sam’s rolling his eyes now. He supposed it was only a matter of time, but he couldn’t stop now, “quantum teleportation, he said he was about to change everything. …Science, medicine, religion.” Sam’s face is as cold as it is thoughtful. Alan begins to feel extraordinarily uncomfortable, but he knows better than to show it.

Sam doesn’t notice. He looks away, and calmly drinks from his beer like he truly doesn’t care at all. He’s too cool to show he cares. He’s too hip and fresh and new and cool to be moved by the ramblings of an old, expendable and out-of-touch man. But still he tries to sell his argument, “He wouldn’t have left that, Sam.”

He takes the opportunity to sit beside him. Sam’s couch is cold as the rest of his room, still brand new and unscathed. It’s perfect, just like him. It’s built to last, functional and somehow still beautiful. And when Alan sits next to Sam on that couch, he feels an energy radiating from him, that familiar sensation of calm and cool and warmth that’s so close but achingly far away. He could reach out only slightly and touch him, but he’s not a brave enough man to go that far. He’s never been the kind to indulge himself on trivial wants, because the potential loss almost never matches the potential gain.

“He wouldn’t have left you,” he seizes the moment to tap him on the shoulder. But it doesn’t help; it only aches, because in that flicker of contact he knew he had the chance to do something, anything more substantial, and didn’t. A firm grip of the shoulder, a slight stroke of the back. Anything more comforting than the quick, completely unfulfilling motion he chose. But it’s the safest choice. And he’s not a gambling man.

He does his best to focus again on the conversation. But it’s difficult, being this close. He can practically hear Sam breathing in this quiet room. If he were to focus, he could almost feel the air move around him.

Before he can speak, Sam voices his disapproval. “Alan, you’re the only one who still believes that!” and he’s up and moving away. He’s wandering to stand alone, some painful feet away, where he can no longer be touched or studied carefully or observed quite so longingly. He’s out of reach. Alan does what he can to follow him over there, tracing his footsteps but Sam is too irritated to even care, “He’s either dead or chillin’ in Costa Rica. Or probably both,” his sarcasm is as insulting as it is perplexed. Yeah, that’s Alan. He knew it. An out-of-touch, optimistic fool. That’s what Sam took him for.

“Look, I’m sorry,” predictably, he’s trying to get rid of him. Alan expected that. “I’m tired and I smell like jail. Let’s just reconvene in another couple of years, huh, whadaya say?”

But he can’t let it go that easily. This is one of his only chances in the world. He needs this moment. He needs to communicate something, anything important to Sam. He needs to reach him. So he follows the spontaneous impulse and holds up a pair of keys, “Here. These are the keys to the arcade. I haven’t gone over there yet. I thought you should be the one.” Because if there was anything important to be found there, Sam would better know what to do about it. As much as Alan wanted to protect him, some things you just can’t prevent. And if there’s a secret about Kevin Flynn hiding in that building, Sam would need to find it. There was no one that deserved, or earned it more. No one had mourned for Kevin like Sam; Alan refused to take that away from him.

“Alan,” Sam’s tone is condescending, as expected, “You’re acting like I’m gonna find him sitting there working. Just, ‘hey kiddo, lost track of time,’” his voice is husky and low. He’s making a joke, but a part of him believes it could be true, too. Or maybe he just wants to. All that Alan can tell for sure is that this comment, however ludicrous, is not nearly as cruel as most of them. Whatever Sam is feeling, he’s thinking seriously. And that’s more respect than Alan had gotten in a long time.

“Wouldn’t that be something?” he tosses Sam the pair of keys. He catches them with little effort, but his expression reveals his surprise. Cool as he’s trying to be, Alan caught him off-guard. That’s a good feeling, however short-lived it is.

Sam’s momentary pause is all the answer he wanted. From here on, it’s Sam’s game. It’s all Sam’s choice, and nothing else he says will change what that kid has already decided. He knows how Sam thinks. He knows how his mind operates, and it runs ten thousand miles a minute. He’s too fast. He’s too speedy and perfect to hang back and slow down for an old guy like Alan. Whatever Sam found in that arcade, if he had to run anything down—be it a mission or a ghost of Kevin Flynn—he could never keep up. Sam would lose him and not even look back.

\--

The air outside is cool and still. Alan knows it’s time to leave, but he really doesn’t want to. He feels unfulfilled, like he came here to do something that’s slipped his mind. But he knows what he wanted. And he knows it’s something he can’t have.

Because a man his age should know better. He does know better. He knows well enough to not get too close to a fire that burns as bright as Sam. That kind of fire can destroy a man, no matter how good his intentions are. Or how impure…

“Rough landing, huh?” that’s all he’d known to say, when he saw Sam’s bruises this time. There’s little you can say to that kid. He does what he wants; he was never looking for someone’s approval. It wouldn’t matter if Alan told him it was dangerous to jump off buildings, or how concerned he was by Sam’s “Could’ve been worse,” answer. With bruises like that, he didn’t want to see worse. He didn’t want to see better either. In fact, seeing none of them would ease his mind. But Sam had an inconvenient way of bruising that beautiful body and letting him see it. He’d change in front of him, like he was an idle piece of furniture. Like he was completely comfortable; too comfortable.

He’d change clothes and drink beer and speak his mind to Alan, because he never thought it’d matter. He didn’t know what thoughts ran in circles inside that man’s head. He couldn’t see his concern, his anxieties, or his desire.

He didn’t know that every time Alan saw those bruises, he wanted to put his hands over them. He didn’t realize that every time he reached for a beer, that Alan would have visions of him getting drunk, and reclining against him on that couch. He didn’t know that the boy Alan helped raise, in his mind, had grown into such an attractive, powerful and incredible, brilliant light of a man that he wanted nothing more than to indulge himself, satiate himself with him. He wanted his time without having to name-drop Kevin Flynn. He wanted his respect, without having to first prove he was right about some wild guess. He wanted Sam to see him as, at the very least, his equal, so that he could sit next to him, and lust after him without feeling completely undeserving and inadequate.

He felt inappropriate, the way Sam made him feel. He’d touch his shoulder, feel his warmth and feel that familiar temptation to not pull his hand back. He’d sit beside him, study his breathing, and wonder what that current of hot air felt like if he got closer. He’d not only hear, but watch him laugh and wonder what his lips felt like. What his skin felt like, even battered and bruised. If those bruises would spread or fade, if those marks felt rough to the touch. He wanted to stroke and touch them until they went away, whether that took several hours, weeks or even days. He would stroke and touch and note their changes by feeling and tasting the skin with his tongue. He’d lick that skin and if Sam was surprised, a part of him just wanted to shrug it off and make a joke about it. Sam would find it strange, but he wasn’t mean to flat-out reject him, was he? Maybe he’d indulge him. Maybe he’d give him just a moment of his time, and indulge a poor old, out-of-touch man that’d never get the chance again. Just one taste of his lips, just one kiss before he left for another year, before he found the courage to show his face again. And if he waited that long, maybe Sam would either think it was a dream, or assume it was just an old, pathetic man being horny and getting rid of his urges somehow. And if Sam questioned it he could lie, and even shrug it off by saying he just wanted to feel someone young against him, soft and smooth skin that could have belonged to anyone. Sam might find it unsettling but he’d find that easier to forgive than the truth.

The truth, that he’d wanted to touch and kiss and feel Sam Flynn since the moment he discovered that he’d grown into a handsome and capable man. He’d found him in his apartment, walking around shirtless with a can of his favorite brand of beer in his hand, fresh bruises scattered over his back. Bruises that he didn’t even care about, bruises that didn’t concern him in the least, from the way he disregarded Alan’s concern for them. He said they came from an accident on his bike, and if anything he seemed more worried about twisting a part of the frame than his own well-being. He was confident and cool and collected and he was sarcastic and smart and savvy. He looked at Alan with a face that was amused, but oddly aware, like even though he was speaking, his brain was hard at work on some other task entirely.

His eyes had been cool and collected. Cold and still. That was a look that would occasionally flash across Kevin’s face. That calm, considerate but mildly perplexed look that waited, just waited for you to come up with a better answer. A better response, anything more worthy of his time. But Sam made Alan feel a way his father never had. He’d seen Kevin in the exact same pose, shirtless with his beer, but it didn’t change a thing. It felt amazing and fresh when Sam did it. He didn’t understand how, but there was just something in the way he looked, something that caused a spark inside him like a man reuniting with his lover. He felt he knew Sam; he knew him, but he’d never known this kid at all. This wasn’t the same boy he’d play catch with. This boy was different. He matured, he grew up in a big way; he was gonna be somebody, even if he lacked the motivation to do it just yet.

And tonight… Tonight. Sam Flynn was so cool. So cool. He was cool and sarcastic and young and beautiful and able and fit and strong. He’d jumped off a building because he damn well could, and probably hit the impact that made those bruises without even breaking a sweat. He’d come home from another few hours in jail and he was only more tired for the wear. Cops didn’t scare him, because jail didn’t scare him. Power and authority bothered him extraordinarily little. In his mind, he was king. He was the ruler and controller of everything he laid his eyes on.

It suited him right. He had that kind of control over a weak-willed man like Alan, too. He could ask him to do anything, anything, and he would oblige him. He would get on his knees for him, he would take a bullet for him, he would die for that kid. He would give him the world if he could, because he felt he deserved it.

And he loved him. In his own sick, terrible way he felt a fondness for him that re-ignited every time he saw his face. Half of it was nostalgia, from his memories of Sam as his adoptive son; those memories were bright and warm. But the other part of his genuine affection came from an admiration, a deep-seated want and need for Sam that made him completely bend to his whims.

He didn’t just indulge him because he was like his son, for all those years. He indulged him because he wanted, desperately, wanted even though he’d never have it, to have Sam as his lover. To touch those bruises and kiss his scars and listen to that soothing voice laugh and poke fun at him until he fell asleep beside him. He would wake up and cook breakfast for Sam, and even feed Marv, so he wouldn’t have to worry about it. He’d take a look at his Ducati and see what parts could use some extra help. He’d repair that broken cable in his tv, he’d take that squeaking sound out of the garage door, and he’d clean up the place to look as new and beautiful as Sam was.

He’d even try to find a way to solve this whole mess about Kevin Flynn, if only Sam would share his brilliant mind with him for a few hours. He was certain they could solve it; together, they could solve it. The old and the new, together in a perfect union of intelligence from both sides of the problem. And if they found Kevin Flynn, Sam might be so grateful for Alan’s help that he’d even kiss him, only not in front of his dad, to avoid any awkward comments from him. And he could still come by every once in a while, not just to update him on the situation, but to enjoy some decent time together; to watch movies, have dinner, make love and wake up the next day to do it all again.

But that was all just a dream, that. Just an old man’s foolish pipe dream.

He’s thinking it’s time to leave, when he hears a familiar approach of footsteps coming up from behind. “You still here?” Sam’s voice is as confused as it is cynical.

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way out,” there’s no reason to cause concern. No reason to distress him or raise hell. Just another night, another moment for him to make a graceful exit and keep his thoughts inside his head.

“Alright,” but he doesn’t fully mean it. When Alan takes a glance over his shoulder to look back at Sam, the boy’s expression is intrigued to say the least. He’s willing to let him go, but he’s almost as willing to listen, too. It’s a toxic and potentially dangerous permission he’s granting Alan, he just doesn’t realize it. He’s too well-intentioned to realize what could happen; what Alan wants to happen.

But Alan’s too good of a man to provoke it, either. “See you around, Sam,” and he turns to leave. He takes a sharp breath in; Sam frowns, but Alan doesn’t see it. He just keeps moving, stepping down those concrete stairs and back to the wilderness, that darkness bathed in moonlight where his car is waiting for him. Waiting to carry him home, and again out of Sam’s convenient, carefree life.

“Hey, Alan,” Sam interrupts his peace.

“You want something?” Alan looks back, doing his best to maintain composure. He can’t afford to show weakness, but he’s having a tough time disguising what he’s feeling right now. It’s the kind of anxiety that makes his words uneasy and his voice tense.

“Do you,” his voice is accusatory and blunt. He’s no fool. He knows Alan had a reason for coming here, and he’s beginning to guess it wasn’t just about the page. And if it was, there’s a-whole-nother set of thoughts rumbling around up there.

Alan pauses.

The air is cold and still. There’s no one around for miles; this area has been abandoned for years. It’s peaceful and quiet, just how Sam likes it. The water’s edge of the lake is cool and glittering. The only sound is the faint rumble of cars in the distance, far outside of where they are. It’s a perfect moment of truth. He’s delivered the most important piece of news he could ever give to this kid. It’d be a decent time to go his own way now, and leave him alone. He could go home, right now, and just try to forget all over again. Or he could speak just a fraction of his mind, and leave with their bond thoroughly abused or severed. It hurts to think of, but for the days leading up to this visit, days when he was desperately wanting an excuse to visit Sam, to see him, to breathe his same air, he’s been wondering if it’ll hurt less than this. This wanting. This anticipation. This constant question, because of that tiny What-if that refuses to die. The What-if that infected his brain and poisons every waking moment the shares with Sam. But if…

If Sam got angry, and sent him away. If he had to let go. If he had to go home, and force himself to move on. To forgive himself and continue living. To be a good husband and forget he ever wanted this indulgence on the side. To enjoy time with his own family, his own household, and to never again allow his mind to drift to these petty fantasies of Sam. It may not be such a bad thing, being free. It’s like a good old fashioned bullet wound. It hurts when you pull the metal out, but the body can’t heal itself until it’s gone.

“I don’t have all day, Alan,” Sam puts the pressure on. He can’t stand this; he can’t take no for an answer. He can’t stand it for someone to ignore a single word he says, not one single demand. Especially when it’s…

“I love you, Sam,” he gets to the point.

But he doesn’t understand, “I know, Alan.” He doesn’t know where the man’s going with this, but he does what he can, “And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me…”

“That’s not it,” he applies a little bit of force behind his words. “It’s not like that.” He couldn’t imagine it’d be this difficult to force it out. Like a fool he’d assumed that first statement would end the discussion, but of course not. It couldn’t be that easy. It couldn’t be that simple; not with the years between them. Years of memories and…

“What’re you getting at,” Sam’s got a half-smile on his face, but it’s because he’s looking for a punch-line. He’s looking for the joke in what he’s been told. He wants to be told that snarky, amusing comment that’ll make him laugh to ease some of the tension. Because that’s the Alan he knows. That’s the Alan he knows and-

“I want something, Sam,” that vague one-liner is the most specific way he could spell it out. He couldn’t deliver a word so lewd as _sex_ , or a phrase so stupid as _to make-love_. This was a full-grown adult. He was a man with self-respect now, and he wouldn’t settle for any of his ridiculous musings and wants. So the less he told him, the better. The truth would come out, but it’d be given in vague terms that didn’t leave him so vulnerable to attack. “Something I shouldn’t want from you.”

But unexpectedly, Sam doesn’t say anything. For the first time in months, Alan has made him genuinely speechless. It’s not that he’s upset, but more so that he’s perplexed. He’s trying but he really doesn’t completely understand. He just doesn’t. He’s never seen it at all. After a tense delay he finally attempts, “You kidding me, Alan,” but his voice is quiet and just a tad more powerful than a hushed whisper. It’s almost like he’s afraid to say it. Scared to imply it.

“I’m sorry,” he says it with a finality that can’t be undone.

Sam tilts his head. It’s sinking in.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” and he again turns to leave.

He takes the remaining steps across the pavement, as his feet reach the expanse of dirt surrounding the small home. Cracked concrete plates and patches of mud as he begins the slow walk back to his car. He would’ve liked to see Sam’s face again, just one more time but then he wouldn’t have the strength to leave.

The night is so still. So calm and still; just the distant sound of traffic at the far horizon. The moon mocks him, illuminating him during his walk of shame. And when he gets into his car, he doesn’t know if he has the motivation to drive off.

This isn’t going as well as he planned, or expected. In that flash of spontaneity, in that split second when he’d made the decision to tell Sam the truth, he hadn’t expected to feel so… in the shitter about it. He feels lower than low; he sits with his hands resting on the steering wheel as the realization slowly hits him that he really can’t focus enough to drive home. He might lose his composure and veer the car off the road. Take a hit into a nearby tree and, if he were lucky, fail to wake up. He wasn’t depressed, he just… The guilt. The guilt, like a ton of bricks against his chest.

A slight sound from outside, but he doesn’t know what it is. Something like… running-

He jumps when the passenger door swings open. He’s startled so badly that his hands fly off the wheel, just for a moment before he firmly presses them back down again. And he knows what to expect when he turns to look, but the vision frustrates him more than he thought it would. He’s frustrated and anxious and concerned.

But Sam. Sam isn’t. He’s leaning into the car, looking straight at Alan as he frowns disapprovingly. He’s not happy, but he’s starting to wisen up. He’s not gonna tell jokes or play games anymore. So he climbs into the seat, sits down, and shuts the door.

The air inside the car is chilled and still, just like outside; but instead of cars, there’s only the sound of their breathing, in erratic and different rhythms that don’t mesh together.

When Sam speaks, he’s extraordinarily matter-of-fact, “Now we’re gonna talk about this, Alan.” That’s a big boy, seizing control. He’s taking charge of a situation Alan himself was not man enough to tackle. His eyes are sharp and focused; but when he turns to look at the man, his expression immediately relaxes. A sentiment Alan hasn’t seen from him in a great while; patience. Patience, and the want for greater understanding.

“I have nothing more to say to you,” because he can’t indulge that patience. If he exposes his most vulnerable side of himself, Sam may damage it irreparably. He may lose a part of his pride that he’ll never get back. He doesn’t know if his ego can take the kind of bruising a smartass like Sam could send his way.

But Sam won’t let go. He can’t. “No, you can’t say that.”

“I can, and I will-”

“You can’t leave it at that,” his voice is loud and bitter. It stings, the way he says that. He’s scolding him like he’s the child. A full-grown adult child. Sam sighs, intentionally loud enough for Alan to hear. He gives a grimace, that’s more irritated than angry, “Now spill it out or we’ll be here all day.”

“I already did,” he murmurs. “I already told you.”

“That you love me,” he gives a small laugh.

But Alan’s lack of response makes that smile vanish from his face. Sam pauses his laughter, and suddenly leans in, looking directly at Alan with some degree of scrutiny. He manages another small grin, but this one’s just for show, “Do you want me, Alan?”

“Sure,” he says it tentatively, because he’s not sure what he’s getting at. And that half-amused, half-determined stare is intimidating.

“You wanna have sex with me,” the openness with which he says that is stunning. Alan’s breath catches in his throat. Sam’s expression is so neutral, so extraordinarily calm. He’s acting like he’s approaching some girl at a bar.

“Sam,” he says, exasperated. “Cut me some slack here.” He’s just an old, tired man. He can’t keep up with any mind games. Not the kind Sam could come up with.

Sam grins again, but this one’s more of a slight tug at the corner of his lips, nothing more. It’s not amused; it’s not born from a laugh. It’s a calm acceptance, and he finally allows his eyes to fall away. He idly looks at the dashboard, as he thinks it through. But he doesn’t voice his thoughts, an observation that drives Alan mad.

“Do you understand me, Sam,” Alan tries. At this point, anything he had to say would be valuable. Anything.

“Yeah,” he nods, “Looks like you’ve got a lot of self-control.” Except that. That’s more bewildering than helpful. And that kid gives another smile that’s a return to his usual sarcastic, slightly demeaning nature. That warm joking tone, “You been bottlin’ it up in there, Alan?”

“Sam, I’m being serious,” in an effort to get a real answer out of him. Come on, something. Anything of value. Anything that would express how Sam was really feeling about this mess.

“So am I,” he calmly replies.

Alan sighs. This is going nowhere. At this rate they really will be in here all night, and he doesn’t know if he can take that unique kind of torture.

“Alan, when’s the last time you just did something crazy,” he gets a tad more comfortable, repositioning his body to sit on the chair sideways. He’s facing him more directly now, but his body posture is a bit more relaxed.

“Like what-”

“The last time you just, you know, jumped off a building, or ran wild through the streets of downtown…”

“Come on, you know that’s not my style.” How wonderfully tongue-in-cheek.

“What I’m saying is,” he gives him a suspiciously sly glance, “If you want something, you should take it.” He shrugs, “Life’s too short, Alan.”

“I want you,” it comes out accidentally, but for the first time he doesn’t regret it. It just seemed right. It feels right. Even though he knows it isn’t. Even though he’s fully aware that-

“So it wasn’t about the page,” he says, a half-murmur.

Before Alan can question that cryptic phrase, he’s distracted by the warm feel of hands on him. One at his chin and another at his shoulder, holding him still as Sam climbs over to where he is. It’s an awkward movement, but he’s swift as can be, and graceful too. Sam could do anything and make it seem natural, even if it’s just a matter of crawling over a seat and across some clunky fixtures inside a car. When he comes to sit directly in front of Alan, so close the man can see his chest rising and falling, Sam doesn’t wait; he kisses him impulsively, pressing their mouths together with a gentleness, a cautiousness that’s as intentional as it is surprising. Alan instinctively parts his mouth slightly and Sam eagerly slides his tongue between his lips.

He tastes coarse and hot, and as Alan invites him in deeper they’re exchanging spit and starting to run out of air. Sam’s eyes are heavy and his gaze is intently focused on Alan, who, for the life of him, can’t remain composed. He feels a flush running through his skin, and he feels momentary anxiety over the sudden reaction that one kiss provoked within him. Without thinking he places a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder, savoring the warm and soft feel of the fabric before he realizes what he’s done, and tries to pull it away; only to have Sam grab hold of it, seizing him clumsily, quickly by the wrist and guiding his fingers onto his back.

Sam briefly pulls back, to quickly say, “Don’t stop now,” a statement that sends a chill up Alan’s spine. It rattles his very being.

“Sam, I can’t,” he tries, but-

“Shut up, Alan,” is the quick reply, spoken in a guttural, rough voice he’d never heard before. A voice that sparked with immediacy and impulsive, not unlike that of lust. But how would that ever be possible. Alan was just a tired old man and Sam was… Sam was-

Sam was slowly grinding his body against his, every step of the way as he climbed to sit in his lap, legs sprawled to either side. He could barely fit, so he quickly asked, “Does this thing slide back,” and Alan immediately knew what he meant. So he reached down beneath the seat and pulled the lever as Sam wasted no time, kicking it back with his legs. And when he did that kick, Alan could feel his whole body flex and move against him, a contact that started at his knees and traveled up his thighs and to his groin.

Sam was getting more comfortable, seeming pleased at having more space to maneuver himself. But he wasn’t completely satisfied, so his hand slid down the side of the chair until he found a second switch, which he tugged to make the chair fall back. Alan gasped as he was startled from the immediate freefall, before he resettled with his head a few several inches from the floor and an insistent Sam hovering above him. He looked up at him, reading the urgent, almost excited look on his face. And it filled him with such a strange joy that he had to take in the moment. This was a sight he thought he’d never see, so he wanted to remember it. He reached a hand up to that face, surprising Sam as he stroked the side of his cheek with a gentleness, a slow motion that just wanted to feel, to sense, to touch. But it was surprising; that face wasn’t as smooth as he expected. He felt small scars, small scars and stray marks from old injuries and cuts he’d never noticed before.

He became lost in somewhat of a daze, somewhere between the intriguing feel of Sam’s rough skin and the tremendous warmth of his body on top of him. Sam seemed to notice it, and chuckled a little, “Alan,” as if he was realizing something that amused and delighted him somehow. “I’m not that interesting,” he murmurs as he lowers himself down, coming towards Alan’s face to kiss him again.

“Of course you are,” he says. It felt as natural as anything he’d ever said, and his honesty caught even Sam off-guard. But he didn’t skip a beat; he completed that kiss, and even though it began innocently enough, Sam was lowering his body completely on top of him when Alan brought another hand to the back of his neck, where it began to travel across his shoulders.

There was an intense heat. Such an intense heat, from the place he least expected. He began to feel it when Sam was kissing him, and it only intensified and sharpened when they began to touch each other more intently, hands wandering with curiosity and impulse. A distinct heat; he could feel it distinctly, because a significant part of his body was pressed against him. Sam’s dick had begun to swell, and when he moved Alan could feel it brushing and sliding against his own. That realization filled him with a sense of want and need he’d never known before.

He wanted. God, he wanted. And during that kiss he became a little more aggressive, sliding his own tongue deep inside Sam’s mouth, so deep he could almost trace to his throat. Sam nearly gagged, but he doesn’t pull back; he only instinctively moved forward, choking on spit and grinding his body back and forth, back and forth so that Alan could feel every inch of his body becoming hot to the touch and desperately attempting to merge with his own. Sam was trying to make two people blur together, crushing and grinding against him so hard he wondered what he wanted next. For himself, Alan didn’t even care. He was enjoying this too much to question whatever the kid had in mind.

But Sam had plans. He always had a plan. And when that kiss finally broke off, he was smiling a little as he sat up, perfectly, erotically straddling Alan’s lap as he pulled his shirt off, and dropped it to the floor.

“Sam,” an idle comment of amazement. It wasn’t that he’d never seen Sam’s naked chest before, but never like this. Sam was hot and sweaty and breathing heavily and it was all he could do to not reach up and stroke and fondle every square inch of that exposed skin. But miraculously, Sam seemed to give him permission. He grabbed one of his hands and pulled it towards him, and when Alan’s fingers began to glide over his stomach, Sam promptly let go. He released that hand, and allowed it to wander, as if dazed by every little move he’d make.

Sam’s skin felt so amazing. More rough and scratched up than he’d ever imagined, but that was all a part of what made it so fascinating and real and genuinely him. He was beautiful and rough and perfect at the same time, a feat all his own.

“Man, you’re killin’ me here,” Sam finally says, with an exasperated sigh.

“Why,” he barely voices it.

“We’re gonna need more room.”

\--

Sam stopped to take another sip from his beer when he entered the house, but he didn’t stop there. He took that sip, said “Hey,” to Marv when the pup whined at him, set the can down on a side table and kept moving to his bedroom.

When he arrives at his bed, Alan is already sitting there. He’s hesitant and uncertain. Sexually charged but anxious. He feels like a criminal, but he wants this so badly he finds it difficult to resist. He can’t leave now. He can’t walk out on an opportunity he’s wanted for so long, and may never have again.

Sam is still shirtless; he tosses his shirt to some obscure corner of the floor, and, without acknowledging or saying a word, idly starts to unbuckle his jeans. Alan watches him in amazement. How can he be so calm…

“Come on, Alan,” Sam grins a little, his face lighting up as he hits him on the shoulder. “I can’t do this all myself.”

It takes him a moment to register what he means, but when Sam immediately gets back to work undressing himself, the message becomes clear. _Get undressed, because we can’t do this if you don’t._ Oh, _God_ , Sam. The realization is sinking into Alan’s mind and he’s finding it difficult to reason with it. This is ridiculous. This is absurd. It’s wrong and criminal on so many levels that he knows it’ll hurt to think about it later. But he can’t stop. With the taste he’s had of Sam thus far, there’s no way he’d ever find the willpower to stop now.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not self-conscious. And when he unbuttons and slides off his shirt, he feels an immediate embarrassment at how inadequate he is. He’s out of shape and there’s nothing smooth, beautiful or toned about his chest. He has an unflattering sprinkle of chest hair, wrinkles and sun damage marks and when he stands up to undo his jeans, he almost doesn’t want to. The more naked Sam gets, the more stunning he becomes; every inch of him is perfect, and it’s damn well intimidating.

But Sam gives him a look, a glance that’s curious and calm. The minute he’s down to his boxers, he comes closer to Alan and undoes his belt buckle for him, proving his own lack of hesitation. He’s not afraid at all of what he might find. He’s not seemingly bothered at all by Alan’s aged body, or the fact that it’s worn-down and dramatically different from his own.

In fact, he’s surprised at the way Alan looks. He thinks that, for being his age, he’s an attractive man. He just doesn’t voice it, because he finds Alan’s awkwardness to be endearing, and genuine. And when he unzips Alan’s pants, the man seems to shiver in a way that turns him on. When he slides his pants down to the floor, he takes his time, eyeing his package while he lets his hands linger, his fingers crawl on the journey down his legs. More shivers from Alan. Sam’s not sure why, but he likes it. He slides a finger underneath the band of Alan’s briefs and the man tenses, almost like he’s afraid. Sam wants to tell him there’s nothing to be scared of, but he feels he’s insulted the man enough for one day. He needs to give him a little more credit, considering what they’re doing. If he’s man enough to make it this far, he’s bold and man enough to fight his fears and go through with it.

Genuinely, he’s surprised. He’s absolutely surprised. Old stick in the mud Alan, here and willing to have sex with him. It’s like something from a dream, it feels that surreal. When he tugs and slides Alan’s underwear down his legs the same way his pants went, he takes in the sight of his naked penis and kisses the tip with a small brush of his lips, before changing his mind and teasing at it with his tongue.

Alan’s about to speak, but before he does, he stands back up with a smile to reassure him. “Relax, old man,” he says. He slides off his own underwear and wants to laugh the new expression on Alan’s face. He doesn’t know if the man realizes it, but Alan’s eyeing his dick like it’s a gift from God. Like he’s afraid to stare for too long, but increasingly curious.

Sam won’t lie; he knows he’s well-endowed. But that doesn’t make Alan’s embarrassed, infatuated look any less amusing. It’s similar to the way he caught Alan staring at him in the car, eyes glossed over and lost in him. It’s an almost childish crush that’s adorable and fascinating because it’s from a man that’s so conservative and rational you’d expect him to be above that sort of feeling. A rational, logical man that wouldn’t be caught dead having sex with a young guy like him. Not until tonight.

Sam wasn’t planning to let him escape. At this point he wanted this almost as badly as the man himself did. The idea was still fresh and new, but he was surprised by how little it bothered him. It’d taken those few moments of sitting next to him in the car to realize that he wasn’t as appalled or disgusted as he should have been. He was confused about it and where the attraction came from, but he wasn’t unwilling to explore it.

It didn’t surprise him as much as it should have, either. He distinctly lacked any kind of shock that a normal person would have. Your surrogate father wants to do naughty things with you, and who knows for how long. Since when? He really didn’t care. Because when he’d taken that instant, while kissing Alan, to consider whether or not he’d be disgusted by continuing that line of action, he affirmed that he didn’t find the man unattractive, and he didn’t mind it when they were in intimate contact. He didn’t fully know what that meant, but it had to mean something significant.

Alan wasn’t his first man, but he’d be the most interesting. And by far the only one he felt any kind of obligation, debt or sincerity to. He would have his fun, but he wouldn’t hurt him. He had no interest in crushing his spirit or breaking his pride. He didn’t want to ruin their relationship, even if it evolved into something inappropriate. He didn’t want Alan to ever regret this, so he was on his best behavior to give him a good time without being too rough or callous like he ordinarily would.

Besides. The more he kissed Alan, the more he enjoyed it. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, it was rapidly becoming a sensation he constantly wanted to experience again and again, deeper and better.

Speaking of that…

He kissed Alan again, this time, standing directly in front of him. He felt his dick twitch when it brushed against the other’s, and it took some restraint to not move his hand down there and start fooling around. He had to be patient. Alan had said he loved him, but it would still be worthwhile to seduce him, just a little more. He wanted to build a little bit more of a longing, so that when he made Alan come, he’d have to scream. Or, well. Considering it was Alan, a husky moan would suffice.

He explored the man’s mouth with his tongue, as he gently nudged him towards the end of the bed. He put a hand on his chest, and pressed down firmly. This noticeably turned Alan on, as his hands again wandered to Sam’s body, running them over the chest that fixated him so much. Sam continuing their kiss, his tongue digging into Alan’s open mouth as he was pushing the man down onto the bed, leaning in and crawling over him like an aroused animal. But it wasn’t a show; he was being as genuine as he could be, and he hoped that even a cynical man like Alan could perceive that correctly.

But what he didn’t fully realize, was that Alan was getting lost. He was getting so lost and distracted by his own craving that he didn’t have much energy left to consider what Sam did and didn’t feel. He figured it was a part of the mess they’d need to sort out later, regardless of how it would end. He was too overwhelmed by the feel and scent and presence of Sam, _Sam_ , because he’d never been this close before. And when Sam slid a hand down his chest he felt so aroused that he could have come right then and there, if he’d only dwelled on the situation as a whole. His fantasy would be able to pick up from here, if that was necessary. But thankfully Sam had a different idea.

“Listen to me, Alan,” Sam’s voice was quiet and sultry, hushed as if he were telling a secret no one else could hear. “Alan, buddy,” he grinned a little, eagerly as if preparing himself to tell a joke with a punch-line he didn’t want to ruin. “I’m gonna get some lube, and when I get back, you can enter me.”

He said that and got up so quickly that it took Alan a moment to register what he’d even said. To hear words that literal and vulgar leave that mouth… It almost felt obscene. Sam was on board. Sam was committed to this. And Alan had the sudden realization that if he went any further, he would never, ever be able to come back from it. They could never come back from doing this.

Sam hadn’t wandered far. He was digging around in a nearby cabinet assembled from stacked warehouse crates, as if he roughly knew what for, and where exactly he had to look. And as he kept an eye on him, Alan began to wonder how many other partners Sam had done this with. He seemed to know his way around this sort of activity, even his way around a man’s body better than he should. He was savvy and smooth and at ease, and considering how nervous Alan was, that hardly seemed fair. What had happened in his life, to be twice Sam’s age, and with only half the experience? Or was it Sam, that had been too promiscuous and become too well-informed far too young… But Alan knew he was a conservative type. He knew his ideals and values were a world away from a young guy like him. His generation was different; his views were different. And no amount of gratifying sex today would bridge that gap between them.

But even that moment of doubt didn’t stop him. Because as he began to feel insecure again, Sam returned with a small bottle in his hands, and he was promptly unscrewing the lid before Alan had a moment to object.

Sam paused, and gave a small laugh. “You sure know how to stare, Alan.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, but Sam didn’t need to hear it. He just grinned and shook his head. He would die before saying it, but he genuinely appreciated the attention. It was flattering. He hadn’t seen anyone so captivated and fascinated by him in years. He’d never been more confident and assertive, but that scared off more people than it encouraged.

Again, Sam didn’t wait for Alan’s permission; he seized his hand, and slowly stretched out his fingers, until Alan’s hand was open in an accepting stance. Sam tipped the bottle over, and poured a small amount of something wet and sticky onto his palm. Alan was calm, until he realized what it was. “I can’t-” he started, until Sam cut him off again, “Not now, Alan.” But Alan cut in, “I don’t know how…”

When Sam gave him a blank look, Alan felt an immediate wave of shame. “I’ve never had to do this before,” he admitted. In his generation, they had a lot of sex without going near this stuff. In his world, anyway… In his world, where he slept with a few women before meeting his wife, and from then on had done this with no one else.

But Sam was unexpectedly kind; he didn’t laugh, or mock him. He just said, in a calm voice, “Just spread it over your fingers, and slip it inside me. Spread it around in there.”

But even that was intimidating. “Sam, I don’t think I can-” It was too foreign an idea. He’d fantasized about penetrating Sam for months, but he wasn’t prepared to treat his asshole like it belonged to him. He wasn’t at all comfortable enough to do the job right, either.

Sam gave a slight sigh, but instead of a sarcastic comment, he just moved to wipe the lube off Alan’s hands and onto his own fingers. He seemed a tad perplexed about it, but it clearly wasn’t the first time he’d received a no for an answer. He got straight to work, reaching around behind himself and making a few sounds of exertion as he fingered himself. He almost seemed… flushed when he again caught Alan staring at him, but the man couldn’t help it. He was as fascinated and aroused by this as anything else Sam had done thus far. And when Sam paused, slid his fingers out and moved to pour more lube on them, Alan stopped him, “Can I help?”

Sam uttered a surprised, “Sure,” but before he was done speaking, Alan was already moving around him, repositioning himself to sit behind Sam. He had been somewhat prepared for the sight, but he hadn’t realized how much he’d enjoy it. His penis reacted and stiffed at the sight of Sam’s wet asshole, as it was dripping a small amount of lube that hadn’t gotten far enough inside. Sam tossed the bottle over to him, and Alan mimicked exactly what the boy had done, pouring a small amount onto his fingers and sliding one of them inside. He was cautious at first, but it went in easier than he expected. Rough to the touch, but warm and slick, he’d never felt anything quite like this before. And as he explored, he went as deep as he could, until he felt Sam stiffen a little. He paused, to question what he was doing but Sam just said a faint, “Go on. But spread it around more.”

So he slid that finger out, and reapplied a little more lube. But this time, he slid one in and tried to fit another, as he slowly spun them in a small circular motion. The movement made them enter Sam a hell of a lot easier, and Sam couldn’t prevent himself from uttering a small, barely audible sound of pleasure as Alan began to move those fingers around, exploring that hot and mysterious space inside him. He wasn’t planning for it to continue for so long, but the sounds Sam started to make only escalated and increased as he moved them around faster, and continued to push in as deep as he could. He hit a certain spot that made Sam squirm, but he realized that was a good thing when he did it again, and Sam gave a moan instead.

But he reached a critical point, when Sam had enough and instead said hastily, “You’re teasing me, Alan.”

“I’m sorry Sam,” but he wasn’t. But that was partly because he anticipated what the brat was about to say next.

“Put it in,” he was urgent and commanding.

“Do I need to put this stuff on it?” he was teasing him still, as he continued to work at his ass with his fingers.

Sam was shaking a little as he groaned, exasperated, “Sure, yes. Just put it in,” he scolded Alan.

Alan had his fun, but he wasn’t going to tease. He wanted this too badly to piss Sam off now. So he slid his fingers out, applied a small drop of lube to the tip of his penis as he should, and positioned himself directly in front of Sam’s waiting entrance. Accordingly, Sam bent over, leaning forward to expose himself better. And he waited, as if preparing himself mentally while Alan was trying to come to grips with what he was about to do.

Even considering what he’d just done, this almost seemed too intimate. This felt too vulgar. He stared at his stiff, erect penis as he held it directly in front of Sam’s exposed asshole, like a gun waiting to fire. He was somewhat losing his motivation to finish the job, but he found a resurgence of willpower when Sam whined, “Please,” in a way that made him feel dizzy. The idea that Sam wanted him; it was… Something so unimaginable, but more pleasurable than he could have dreamed.

So he slid himself inside, pushing the tip of his penis into an entrance that wasn’t as tight or unyielding as he expected. He intended to take it more slowly the rest of the way in, but there was such a warmth and tightness pressing around him that he couldn’t resist the spontaneous urge to push in deeper. Thanks to the extensive lube, it wasn’t too difficult; but it made Sam moan in a way that startled even him. He hadn’t realized it as he slid his way in, but he’d reached that point inside him, that perfect spot that, when hit, made Sam squirm and moan in pleasure. He’d flirted with it when he had his fingers in there, but his dick was longer, stronger, and better at hitting it than they were. So he took advantage of the fact. He pulled back, and thrusted. Pulled back, and thrusted. Felt a wave of pleasure of his own whenever Sam would gasp or make some unintelligible sound, a wave of pleasure and hot sensation that was heightened whenever his body would tense around his penis and grip it tightly with a unique and encompassing pressure.

He’d been inside of a woman before, but it was never like this. He didn’t know if it was because Sam was a man, or because he wanted him that much, but this was incredible. Between Sam’s voice and the feeling of an entire body reacting to every push and harder thrust he’d make, he had to restrain himself just a tad, just a tad to keep from losing it and coming too soon. He had to hold a little longer. He had to make Sam believe this old man was still worth a damn. That he could pleasure him just as good as any younger, more nimble and capable man would.

He didn’t realize that his concern was misplaced. Because even though it felt good, what really felt good to Sam was the fact that it was Alan. Alan, _Alan_. He felt so naughty and provocative and amazing because this straight-laced, uptight, serious man was pounding into him with a vigor and a desire he didn’t know he was capable of. He’d hear the grunts and gasps escape from his erratic breathing and it made him moan because he knew that whatever Alan was feeling, it was damn good and he reveled in the sensation of them both being in so much pleasure.

“God, Alan,” he murmured, just to see what the man would do. In response, “Sam,” a breathless sigh that was more of a gasp than a statement, more of an answer than a complaint or worry at all. “So good, Sam,” and it was enough to nearly send the boy over the edge. But this wasn’t quite enough.

“Touch me,” he said.

“Where,” the man asked, in between thrusts.

“Anywhere.”

And so it began. So it really began. The experience that brought Sam an inner peace he hadn’t ever felt. Alan’s clumsy hands traveled his body and run up and down his back in a rhythmic pattern that made him feel adored and attractive. Every time Alan touched him, Sam felt an incredible impression of adoration and affection and that incredible _love_ thing Alan had mentioned. He touched him with tenderness, such curious amazement, noting every mark, every curve, every bend of his body, like it was something sacred. And Sam hadn’t ever realized it, but he’d needed that attention, that knowledge of being so highly prized and alluring, to really enjoy sex this much. He needed a man like Alan, _his_ Alan, with his hands desperately wanting to explore and touch and understand everything there was to see and feel across his skin.

And when a hand moved around to touch his penis, he was distracted and startled, because this was more than he was ever expecting. For going into this wanting to impress Alan, he was amazed at how overwhelmed he was by what was happening. It was magical. When that man’s fingers began to delicately, but intently prod and stroke the underside of his dick, it was magic. He felt a physical, visceral spark.

“Oh _God_ Alan,” that moan was almost enough to send that man over the edge. But still he persevered. Still he kept going, pounding into him harder, harder, and faster. He occupied and busied his hand with that boy’s perfect dick, while he admired the perfect body beneath him, studying his back as he increasingly spread himself against the bed, burying his face into the edge of his pillows to suppress another series of moans. His change in posture made it a tad more difficult to thrust into him, but Alan found the strength to persevere and fuck him with the wrath of a mighty God. He briefly tugged at his leg to keep it at the right angle, and continued to fuck him without missing a single thrust.

On Sam’s back, those fresh bruises from his earlier incident. Two aggressive-looking slash marks, wide in diameter and rough along the edges. He wanted to get a better look at them, so he pushed against Sam’s stomach for a moment, motioning him to come up, up just a little, just enough.

Sam didn’t question it; he complied, and when he pushed himself up from his arms, Alan went with his instinct and slid himself completely inside him, and curled himself around Sam’s body at a perfect meshing, his balls hitting against Sam’s own and his face at a perfectly achievable, convenient access point to kiss and lick any inch of his upper back.

He hadn’t fully realized what difference he’d made, until Sam was moaning again, grinding back against him, and it became apparent that not only was he completely inside him, he was at a point where he could thrust quickly, and stay inserted at that deep level with little difficulty. Sam was willing to move accordingly, so that instead of pulling dramatically in and out, Alan changed his strategy. He pounded him like a hyperactive dog, pounding and pounding and rattling Sam’s body like a doll; a doll that moaned and gasped and cried with pleasure. He was about to come; Alan could feel it. His body was tense, his exclamations were faster and more hoarse and he was pressing Alan’s hand firmly, almost painfully against his own dick like it would fall off if he didn’t hold onto it. Alan took the hint and stroked him firmly, and as quickly as he could while he continued that manic thrusting. He was quickly becoming tired, but he refused to stop. He’d find the strength to continue on for hours if he needed to. Whatever Sam needed. He would do anything for this kid. Anything.

In the meantime, there was the sight of Sam’s bruised and scarred flesh, directly in front of his face. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. And when Sam was on the edge of coming, he took advantage of his momentary lapse of awareness and licked furiously at the nearest bruise, tracing it with his tongue, and sucking on the fresh and swollen skin there. Sam cried out, but he didn’t come; not yet. He just whined another, “Alan,” and paused, as if reveling in the feeling of what he was doing. He started to gasp as Alan continued to torture that bruised flesh, even though he was thrusting much more slowly. It was too difficult to maintain that manic pace and lick him so assertively at the same time, but Sam didn’t seem to mind at all. He placed a hand over Alan’s own hand on his dick, and began to move it again, jacking himself off with Alan’s fingers.

And when Alan began to push in again, as deep and as quickly as he could while still keeping his tongue and lips and teeth on that bruised wound, Sam finally let out another moan and approached that moment of climax again. Before he came, he growled a, “Bite me,” and when Alan did, his body began to shake. He stiffened, and as Alan began to draw blood, Sam’s ejaculate was spilling out over the white sheets of his bed.

Sam was breathing heavily; Alan finally drew back from that bruise, feeling a tad guilty as he’d only made it worse. But Sam didn’t seem the least bit offended. He uttered a contented “Wow,” and, as if noticing that Allen hadn’t come, simply said, “Keep going.”

And so he did. He licked that wound, and pulled back and pushed in and pulled back and pushed in and pulled back and pushed in and licked and tasted and licked and pulled back and pushed in and pulled back and pushed in until he felt his own body growing weak. And Sam, even though he came, was still feeling something as he uttered a “Feels good, Alan,” in a rough and husky voice that was the final impulse Alan needed. He came at last, filling Sam with his semen and feeling oddly accomplished about doing so. It was a childish thing, but he felt proud, like he’d claimed him somehow. He knew this arrangement of theirs was unstable and potentially very volatile, but he still felt more accomplished in his life to have come inside of Sam, _his_ Sam, at least once in his life.

Alan pulled out, and was amazed at the sight of just how much cum he’d filled the poor boy with. A small amount leaked out, and when he was about to move to wipe some of it off for him, Sam wasted no time and turned around, grabbing hold of Alan’s face with his hands and promptly kissing him on the mouth.

The kiss started impulsively, and with the last remnants of desire between them; but in time it faded, and slowed, and relaxed. It became a comforting kiss, a soft massaging of lips together and hesitant tongues and sincere licks and gentle pressing that was an expression of contentedness between lovers.

When they parted, just for a brief moment, Alan couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t bear it, if he never got the chance to say it again. “I love you, Sam,” it was a murmur that meant far more than it ever had before. Maybe because he proved it with his actions, but also because Sam was feeling more open to the idea, himself. Increasingly so. And when he heard that, he smiled a little and said, “I like you too, Alan. Let’s do this again sometime,” with a tongue-in-cheek grin. It wasn’t a confession of love with the same sincerity, but it was a strong confession nonetheless. Because it was a sign of newer and greater things. A sign of a potential future where Sam might, just might, come to love Alan with the same affection and genuine fascination and wonder that he had for all this time.

And that hope, in Alan’s mind, was worth far more than any proclamation of love anyone else had ever given him before.

\--

It’s a brilliant morning. There’s a young woman standing outside by the lake water, cooing and speaking kindly to the furball Marv, who hasn’t left her side for days. She’s discovered that she likes dogs. She really, really likes dogs. She laid her eyes on Marv and immediately hugged him, even as the guy had originally tried to crawl away and escape.

Sam had brought her here, thinking she’d fit in quite well. He was right. She adapted to this world better than he’d ever expected, and she loved his apartment more than anywhere else. She didn’t need a lot of space to be happy, just some books to entertain herself with, and, since she’d arrived and been properly introduced to them, a couple of movies on stand-by. She loved movies, almost as much as books. And she’d love to talk about them for hours after, babbling about things to Sam, even when he was nearly falling asleep at the table.

And when he’d fall asleep, with a shuffle and a slight exchange of laughter, that beautiful young lady would step aside, and allow a man to come forward, pick up the boy from around his shoulders, and hoist him up over his back. Alan would carry him to bed on those nights, and he would change him out of his clothes and tuck him in, before crawling in to sleep next to him some time later, after having rejoined Quorra for a few hours to finish her enlightening conversation. She had some amazing things to say. She had a brilliant mind, much like Sam. It was easy to understand why Kevin had chose her as a foster daughter. Her intelligence must have reminded him quite strongly of his son.

But Quorra, unlike Sam, still has a lot to learn. And she hasn’t quite figured out the curious relationship Alan has with Sam. Not yet. She thinks he’s being a good friend. Which is true, but…

When Alan climbs in to bed with Sam, the room is pitch-dark. He doesn’t want to wake him. But Sam always notices, because he’s so accustomed to their routine. He’ll open his eyes slightly, or he might not; but every time Alan is there, he’ll slide his hand across the bed to where he is, place that hand on his face, and give him a slight caress there before pulling it back or letting it fall idly over his shoulder. Sometimes Alan will be unable to resist, and he’ll kiss Sam politely on the forehead, to not stir him too much. Sometimes, Sam will open his eyes after that and gesture that he wants a real kiss, a proper kiss on the mouth. And Alan will kiss him like his lover, smile to himself and lay back down, where he’ll fall asleep after a mutual exchange, a tired murmur of, “I love you,” and “I love you too.”


End file.
